


There's a feeling in your eyes (the shadows can't erase)

by PardonMyManners



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Drama, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mild Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-19 00:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PardonMyManners/pseuds/PardonMyManners
Summary: Following the sensational and mysterious deaths of her family, Sansa Stark marries her cousin, Jon Snow, a newly appointed Sheriff in the wild country of the Arizona Territory.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [just_a_dram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Saskatoon Berry Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152454) by [just_a_dram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram). 



> Well, this was somewhat inspired by just_a_dram's fantastic fic, Saskatoon Berry Pie (which, if you haven't read, you absolutely should). Takes the premise and shoves it into the Wild West, basically. Should be at least a few chapters of this, I think. I hope everyone enjoys.

The moisture is drawn from her skin the moment she steps off the train; a hot, dusty wind dragging it off into the desert along with the last vestiges of the girl Sansa Stark had once been. The sun feels like a heavy hand pressing down on her, and the world is made almost blinding beneath its ceaseless glare.

Clutching her single, worn bag low against her stomach, Sansa steps shakily to one side as other passengers slip hurriedly past. A harried looking mother shushes her untidy son as he wails softly against her sweaty neck, disturbed from his nap. An older gentleman in a wrinkled, but finely tailored suit brushes past her without a backward glance, intent on gaining the other side of the platform. A young woman in a pink striped dress calls out in excitement and rushes from the gathered crowd toward a handsome young man with a wide grin. The man sweeps the woman into his arms and plants a bold kiss on her lips as she squeals with glee, clutching her hat against her head. Sansa feels her cheeks warm, almost to boiling beneath the desert sun, and she looks quickly away. In Boston, women of class did not behave in such a manner.

But this isn’t Boston, she reminds herself, and she’s not a woman of class… not anymore.

She lifts her eyes, feeling sweat beginning to form beneath the rim of her silk hat and in the hollow of her spine, and spots him at last, leaning against the column nearest the ticket booth.

Jon.

She takes in the familiar curl of his dark hair against the powder blue of his shirt collar, the chiseled curve of his jaw that bears the hint of a beard, and the sharp angle of his nose… it all makes something inside her clench painfully and she presses her bag tighter against herself. Just to see him brings back the sound of her older brother’s laugh and the image of her younger sister’s smile… the boom of her father's voice from down the hall and the disapproving purse of her mother's lips over dinner. It’s almost overwhelming and her eyes burn as though she might shed tears, but the sun steals them away before they are fully formed.

She doesn’t have long to survey him undisturbed. His eyes stop searching through the sea of faces and meet hers, widening perceptively. She wonders if he is seeing the same set of ghosts. 

After a breathless, and oddly timeless moment, he seems to come to life and pushes away from the column, coming toward her with just a hint of uncertainty in his gait, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn trousers. A sharp breeze shifts his jacket as he walks and the five-pointed star on his breast glimmers briefly in the sunlight. She belatedly notices the gun resting against his hip, strapped securely to his thigh, and it sends a sharp and confusing thrill through her. He’s grown handsome, she considers distantly. Taller and broader of shoulder, and there's an almost... dangerous look about him that pleases her more than it should.

She glances about her, as though looking for a way to escape; not from him, exactly, but the memories he invokes. There is nothing but desert in either direction; the entire expanse of Tucson seems to spread out just beyond the train station, as though it is the beating heart of the entire town.

Jon takes off his hat when he stops a few feet from her, holding it between hands that are sun tanned and large. There are white stripes along his knuckles and she has the strangest urge to feel the contrast of work roughened skin and smooth scar tissue. Maybe she just wants to assure herself that he is real.

“Sansa,” he says in a gruff voice.

His face is a warm golden brown and his eyes, dark and familiar, study her with apprehension. There are fine lines there as well, as though he smiles often, but that is not the boy she recalls. Fifteen year old Jon Snow had never been quick or easy with his smiles, but it’s been more than a decade since they saw one another last, and she is certainly not the girl she once was. In that time they've only exchanged a few awkwardly clipped letters after the accident and a few more to… arrange everything. It was a bit like meeting a stranger with an oddly familiar face.

“Was, ah, your journey alright?” he asks.

The journey had been long and laborious and nerve wracking. She’s never in her life traveled anywhere without a chaperone -usually her father- and certainly never so far. Her body ached from the hard, small bed she’d managed to arrange for on the train -sleeping in her seat would have been cheaper but she hadn’t been able to bear the thought, memories of unwanted hands and stale breath driving away all thoughts of prudence. She could have waited for him, of course -he’d offered to come and collect her, but that would have taken months between waiting for an opportune time to hand over his duties and the accompanying train trip. She couldn’t have born it.  

“The journey was fine, Jon,” she says with a smile she hopes does not appear forced. It hardly matters; his gaze flits uncertainly from hers almost as soon as it settles.

He returns his hat to his head and it’s different from the sort of hats men wore in Boston, its brim wider, likely to better protect against penetrating rays of the desert sun. It suits him, she thinks.

“I’ll, uh, get your bags,” he offers, spotting the baggage car nearby.

“Just the one,” she says as brightly as she can manage, handing him her ticket. It holds all the possessions remaining to her, but she keeps that to herself, though she's certain he's aware. Nearly everything had been lost in the fire, and what remained she'd sold and stashed away.

Moments later, Jon, her single suitcase in hand, leads her to the open top carriage he’s hired to take them to the court house. He’s also arranged for a night in a local hotel, he tells her in a strained and quiet voice as they settle next to each other on the cushioned bench seat. There is enough room between them for at least two more people to sit comfortably. Sansa thanks him automatically, trying to quell the rising panic building in her breast.

 _You chose this,_ she reminds herself firmly. _Jon is a good man. It will be alright._

She attempts to distract herself by taking in the dust-blown streets of Tucson. It’s finer than she might have anticipated, with its brilliantly white-washed buildings and its avenues lined with young and unfamiliar trees. Still, it is nothing compared to the cobbled stone streets of Boston and its lovely rows of stately oaks and pines; though Tucson certainly smelt better. The sun is nothing to be trifled with, she concedes, already feeling very much like a drooping flower beneath its glare and looks upon the other women walking the boulevard with their thick parasols with envy. Those, too, had either been destroyed or sold.

They arrive at the court house a short time later and Jon hands her out, the callouses on his palm pulling at the fine lace of her glove. He pays the driver a few coins, murmuring his thanks, before gathering her bag, a worn leather satchel, and a brown wrapped parcel she’d been too distracted to notice. With a nod of his head he urges her up the wooden steps, and her heart stumbles uncertainly in her breast.

“There’s a room where you can freshen up,” he tells her, perhaps in an attempt to offer comfort, as the carriage pulls away. He still can't quite meet her eye as he shoulders his bag and tightens his hold on the box beneath his arm. She’s already wearing her best gown –she’d sold all the others, keeping only those that seemed the most resilient and practical- and it's wrinkled and dust stained already... a few moments to ‘freshen up’ would hardly improve matters.

Like most girls Sansa knew, she’d dreamed of what her wedding might be like some day. It would have taken place in a church, or course, every pew dripping with fresh flowers, dozens of candles burning at the altar… her father would have given a speech over dinner and there would have been dancing, lots and lots of dancing. She’d had her wedding gown designed in her head since she was ten years old.

Only women of low moral character, as her mother described them, married before a Justice of the Peace.

Sansa squeezes her eyes closed for a brief moment, banishing the thought. There hadn’t been the time to arrange a church ceremony, nor the money to pay for it. A small price to pay for freedom and protection, she reminds herself, and ascends the steps with her chin raised high.

Once safely within, a stooped, older woman with a parched and severe face leads them to a small, tidy room. There’s a pitcher of water with an accompanying basin, a single chair, and a full length mirror. Jon deposits her bag on the chair and lingers awkwardly on the threshold for a moment before yanking off his hat again and holding the parcel out to her.

“My ah, deputy’s wife, Gillian, made this for you,” he says, finally meeting her eyes.

Sansa takes the package carefully in hand, and under his stare, slowly unwraps it atop her suitcase. Paper and string set primly aside, she lifts the lid of the simple blue box, and lets out a soft exhale of surprise. Quickly removing her dust stained gloves, she pulls free a white dress, almost too shocked for words.

“S-she made this, you say?”

“Yes,” he replies and she can hear the smile in his voice. “She’s handy with a needle, Gilly is. I, uh, had to guess at your measurements.”

Sansa shakes her head, fingering the delicate lace at the modest neckline. It’s not the dress she'd dreamed of, but it’s far better than she’d hoped for now that the day had arrived with far less fanfare or joy. Sansa, who had an eye for fashion and was handy with a needle herself, did not think she could have done so well. Not to mention the expense… the lace alone must have cost a hefty price. That a stranger would go to such trouble was almost beyond comprehension.

“It’s… beautiful,” she says, speaking past a lump in her throat. She folds the dress carefully over the chair and turns toward him. “I will have to do something to repay her.”

Jon’s mouth lifts, the white of his teeth flashing against the tanned planes of his face, and it is a handsome smile indeed. One she instantly hopes to see more often. “I think she’s hoping only for your friendship. Our small town is, ah, _lacking_ in women her age who share her interests.”

Sansa smiles in turn, the first that hasn’t felt forced in months. “Then she shall have it.”

They study each other for a long moment before Jon finally ducks his head, turning his hat between his hands. He takes a deep breath and meets her gaze again, looking determined and very serious. “You’re certain this is what you want, Sansa?”

 _No_ , her mind immediately supplies, but she bats the thought aside. It’s too late for that now, and this is a far better arrangement than the one she’d only barely escaped.

“Of course, Jon,” she tells him softly, and, before she can stop herself, asks, “Are you sure it’s what _you_ want?”

She instantly regrets the asking; what would she do if he changed his mind? She couldn’t stay with him if they were not married; her already damaged reputation would not be able to withstand the impropriety of it. Not to mention Jon’s own reputation; he’s a man of the law, after all, and he’s meant to be an example of upstanding citizenry. Though perhaps such arrangements were common in this... _wild_ territory they heard so many tales of back home -she may have fallen from the highest rungs of society, but not so far as to live with a man who was not her close relation or husband.

She’d very carefully avoided thinking too hard about what Jon might be giving up in marrying her; no matter how much the guilt of doing so clawed at her. It was selfish and terrible, but she’d known as soon as he’d written to express his condolences that he would help her. She may not have seen or spoken to him in years, but Robb and her father had spoken of Jon often and with pride. He was a man of honor, courage, and duty, they’d told her. She’d known he would help her if she asked.

Jon ducks his head as her heart leaps in fear. “I’ll uh, let you get changed,” he says by way of answering, reaching for the door knob and pulling it toward him. “I’ll be in the hall when you’re done.”

The door closes with a soft click and Sansa deflates in on herself. She reaches out and grips the back of the chair for support, eyes clenching shut as she draws in long, steadying breaths.

 _You can do this, Sansa,_ she tells herself firmly. _You **must** do this. _

Eventually, she begins undressing, fingers numb and shaking as she sets each sweat-damp layer aside. She leaves her corset and underthings in place, not having the willpower to search for fresh ones in her luggage. Pouring water from the pitcher to the basin, she takes up a rough cloth and washes her face, arms, and neck, feeling a bit more like herself when she’s done.

Her wedding gown is simple enough to ease into, and she pulls it over her head, adjusting its seam to fall over her slight hips. It’s a bit too short and a little loose in the chest and stomach, but it does the job well, or so she concedes as she studies herself in the full length mirror.

She considers redoing her hair but decides against it, afraid too much time alone might fracture her already delicate resolve. Tying the dress securely behind her back she reaches up and deftly tucks a few stray strands of hair back into her loosened coif, wishing she at least had a few flowers to set within it. A bit of baby's breath, perhaps. _Stop being s_ _illy_ , she tells herself firmly.

With a long exhale, she smooths her hands down the front of the gown, the sheer chiffon gliding against the simple muslin beneath. Suddenly, neither the missing flowers, nor the simple gown, or even the lack of a church matter. They never really did, she realizes with a gut wrenching pang; the only that had ever really mattered were the people she loved most being here for this moment. The father that should have walked her down the aisle. The mother who should have helped her to dress and primp. The brother who should have been sullen and over-protective. The sister who should have complained and whined about her uncomfortable bridesmaid dress.

Sansa allows a single, broken sob to slip through the fingers she presses tightly against her lips, before turning sharply away from her reflection. She does not have time for this, she reminds herself wearily. Her sadness and grief would not change what has or is about to happen. Composing herself as best she can, and tucking the agony of her loss deep inside herself once more, she steps shakily out into the hall.

Jon is waiting for her as promised, and his appearance is so altered she stops short. For a disorienting moment, she’s back home in her mother’s parlor, shyly greeting her escort for an upcoming social event.

He’s changed into a fine black suit and crisp, white shirt, his hair combed back from his face, and his cheeks freshly shaven. He looks years younger and a far cry from the back-country cowboy she’d met at the train station. Resting at his side, gripped in one hand, is a bouquet of white and pink roses. She’d unconsciously expected him to marry in what she’d found him in, hardly bothering to consider, or even expect, an alternative.

He’d turned toward her as soon as the door opened and she doesn’t realize he’s staring as intently as she is until her gaze finally meets his and they both flush.

“For you,” he says, thrusting the flowers out toward her with a sharp little bow. A curl flops over his brow and she can’t help but smile, even if it does waver a little. The roses smell wonderful as she tucks them close to her chest.

“Thank you…you needn’t have troubled yourself,” she tells him, even as she enjoys a little thrill at the thought of him picking the flowers out, awkward but determined as the women in the shop giggle behind their hands, jealous perhaps. It’s a charming picture, and it’s one she clings to.

“It was no trouble,” he says, eyes darting between her and the hall beyond in an almost comical circle.

She takes pity on him, rallying her courage; they're near the finish-line now. “Shall we?”

He straightens and clears his throat before offering his arm in a smooth practiced motion; apparently her mother’s lessons on etiquette had not gone completely to waste.

The ceremony is short and relatively uneventful. It takes a bit of convincing on both their parts to assure the Judge and their assigned witness –an aged county clerk- that no, she truly had no male relatives to vouch for her and that yes, she was marrying Jon of her own free will. Eventually the stern looking man concedes, but only after Jon reluctantly reveals that he’s the newly minted Sheriff of the small town of El Frida, but he eyes Jon with distrust through the entire ceremony.

When the time comes, Jon supplies her with a simple gold band to slip over his finger. Her heart runs rampant as her fingers flounder over his before she eventually manages to settle the ring in place. But then he is slipping a far different sort of ring on her own finger; it is stunningly beautiful, a large sapphire set between two diamonds on a gold band. She looks to him in shock –surely he hadn’t the money for such a treasure- but he pointedly avoids her gaze.

Then, on the Judge’s command, Jon’s leaning toward her and she’s so out of sorts that she doesn’t realize he’s aiming for her cheek, rather than her mouth, until it’s too late. It’s a clumsy but shocking contact of lips, and in their mutual surprise they linger longer than perhaps is prudent. It’s so different from the other kisses she’s experienced, most of which had been stolen, that she leans into the contact with something akin to relief. He smells of oiled leather, minty aftershave, and warm desert air. On instinct she clutches the front of his jacket to steady herself and feels his fingers ghost along the line of her jaw a moment before they startle apart.

She’s certain she’s flushed bright red up to the roots of her hair, but the Judge, when she turns, seems pleased by the display. Finally convinced of her willingness to marry Jon by her wanton display of affection, no doubt. The idea is more than a little mortifying, but if it keeps him from writing to Boston to confirm her story, well, so much the better.

“Congratulations, Mrs and Mr Jon Snow,” he says kindly. “May God bless your union.”

“T-thank you,” she murmurs absently, reaching reflexively for Jon’s hand. He grasps her fingers securely between his, offering his thanks in turn, before leading her toward the waiting cleric.

“Be sure to sign your maiden name, darlin’,” the older man tells her kindly as she shakily takes up the pen and signs the marriage license beneath his grizzled finger. Jon follows suit and the man informs them they can pick up a copy tomorrow morning.

And so, in barely the course an afternoon, she’s a married woman and Sansa Stark is gone forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon begin their journey across the desert as Sansa struggles with the realization that she is ill prepared for the sort of hard living that her new life will require.

Whatever fears Sansa may have harbored concerning her wedding night could not stand against the wave of exhaustion that strikes her shortly after she and Jon share an awkward, and mostly silent dinner in the hotel restaurant. Weeks of travel and months of stress and grief catch up with her over the rim of her wine glass, and she can barely stay upright in her chair.

She’d planned to be charming. Lively. Bright.

Jon had never been much of a conversationalist, and little had changed if his short, impersonal letters were anything to judge by, but Sansa was adept at making pleasantries. She would tell him all about her life in Boston, all the interesting things he may have missed, out here in the wilds, so far from civilized society. Perhaps she would impress him with her scholarship; her knowledge of the political ideals of the day and the current state of affairs in the territories, details she’d poured over in the weeks leading up to her departure. Eventually, she would have gleaned a bit of information from him. Perhaps about his years in the Army, or how he’d come to be appointed Sheriff at so young an age.

In sum, she’d planned to make Jon glad for having married her, or at the least not outright regretful. What more could a man want, aside from a pretty and engaging wife? In the back of her mind, however, she suspected a man like Jon, living the sort of life he did, might want or expect a great deal more.  

Instead of engaging him in conversation, she drooped over her plate, hardly managing more than a few bites of venison she didn’t truly taste. Jon spoke little beyond the necessities of their trip back to his - _their-_ home. They would take a stagecoach to Tombstone, he told her quietly, pushing the food around his plate with a fork. Once arrived, they would stay at another hotel for the night, gather a few necessities the following morning, before making the last leg of the journey by horse. Had she been a bit more mentally aware, the idea of traveling through the desert on horseback might have given her pause, but as it was, it was merely par for the course. She’d been living from moment to moment since the fire had destroyed everything she knew about life and her place in it. She saw no reason to do otherwise now. She would deal with things as they came.

 _It’s lonely out here_ , he’d written in one of his letters.  _There’s little more than dusty valleys, jagged mountains, and scrawny cattle._ He’d been trying to warn her how different life would be for her, how much she’d be giving up in marrying him, but she’d garnered a different sort of truth from between the lines of his steady script...loneliness.

It came off his letters in waves so strong she could almost taste it, like acid in her throat, and by then it was a familiar flavor. Jon’s mother -Sansa’s Aunt- had died in childbirth and no one, not even her own father, had know the identity of his father. This had proven to be something of a black stain on the Stark family name, which is why her own mother had always hesitated in taking Jon to important social functions. It all seemed so silly now. Everything about her life in Boston seemed so… frail and frivolous. Shattered as easily as a pretty pane of stained glass.

Now they were both orphans. To Sansa, at least, Jon is the last remaining tie to a childhood that shines now like a star in the aftermath of loss and grief. He’s the only one left to her.

After dinner, he escorts her upstairs and she can barely lift her feet well enough to clear the steps. Her new husband frowns at her in concern, her arm tucked into his, and she tries for a smile. She ought to be nervous, considering, but all she feels is terrible, drowning relief. She made it; she’d done it. She’d crossed the breadth of America on her own and married the only man in all the world she felt certain she could trust. Whatever came of tonight, whatever he might expect of her, she would grant him gladly.

But Jon leaves her almost as soon as he unlocks the door to their room. He needs to arrange for the stagecoach in the morning, he explains, sounding apologetic and uncertain. His hand is splayed firmly against the small of her back, perhaps worried she might topple over, and the press of his fingers is warm and comforting.

With a weary nod of consent, he leaves her, though he eyes her warily from the end of the hall before disappearing back down the steps.

Their room is small but quaint, comfortable even, but she hardly notices.

As the country had raced past her window on the train, she’d imagined a long, warm bath with rose scented soap before bed. She’d wear her prettiest nightgown -of the three she had left to her- and she’d intended to leave her hair loose and flowing. Men always seemed fascinated by her hair. But the idea of a real bed after weeks spent sleeping fitfully on little more than a slab of wood consumes her entirely.

Even the knowledge that she will be sharing this bed with her new husband cannot temper her anticipation. She only barely manages to get out of her dress and corset and into the first nightgown she finds in her suitcase before collapsing atop the bedcovers, not even bothering with the blanket.

Sleep envelops her firmly and deeply and she doesn't stir, not even when Jon returns and tucks her carefully beneath the coverlet before turning down the lamp and settling in stiffly beside her.

-

-

Sansa wakes to blinding sunlight and a hot breeze that does very little to cool the layer of sweat that’s collected along the entire length of her body beneath the blankets. Sticky and hot, she pulls herself groggily away from the pillow she’d been plastered against and sits upright, shoving the offending covers away. On the other side of the pillow -which he must have placed between them sometime in the night- Jon startles and grunts into wakefulness. He reaches for the gun resting on the nightstand before stopping short. Sansa, for her part, only barely manages to choke down a scream. She’d forgotten where she was; forgotten that she was  _married._

Jon, still dressed in the shirt and trousers they’d married in, worn red socks stark against the white bedsheets, props himself up on one elbow and observes her with blurry, hooded eyes. Something about his disheveled hair and the two undone buttons of his shirt makes her shiver a little despite the almost oppressive heat. She’s never in her life shared a bed with a man who was not her brother, and even that hadn’t happened in many years.

The distended muscles of Jon’s neck gleam with sweat in the sunlight as he turns toward her and her breath catches with an odd little hiccup at the back of her throat.

They stare at one another as the silence deepens and grows strangely heavy, almost anticipatory. She feels a drop of sweat curl down her collar bone and watches as Jon follows it’s path beneath the drooping neckline of her thin nightgown. He inhales, throat bobbling, and the spell is broken.

Feeling flush and out of sorts, she darts behind the dressing panel near the bed, heart thundering between her ribs. Safely hidden, she press a hand to her chest and tries to compose herself.

“What time does the coach leave?” she asks in a shrill voice that makes her flinch. She’d hoped to sound unaffected, as if she’d bound from bed because she wished to be ready in time for their departure and not because he’d unnerved her utterly.   

She hears him shift off the bed, the sound of his stockinged feet shuffling over the floorboards. He clears his throat before speaking as she blindly rifles through her suitcase. “It leaves in a quarter hour. I’ll uh, see to breakfast.”

“Of course,” she manages, sounding more like herself.

He dresses quickly -the unmistakable rustle of discarded clothing making her blush- and leaves with a gentle click of the door and the muted slide of the lock.

She hastens to wash her face and hands and tidy her appearance. She forgoes the fine brocade and silk gown she’d arrived in for a more practical cotton day dress in pale blue. The heat makes her slow, weighing her down as bright sunlight streams through thin curtains. _I wonder if this is how it feels to be slowly baked alive,_ she considers grumpily.

Jon returns just as she’s finished with the buttons on the bodice of her dress -after spending nearly half his absence trying to hurry into her corset, fingers slick with sweat.

He flounders at the door as she turns.

“I’ve ordered us breakfast,” he says, eyeing her, fingers hovering over the door knob. He’d changed into a loose, dark blue shirt tucked into worn gray trousers. His hair was in need of combing and perhaps a trim. Sansa wonders if he might let her cut it for him.

“Alright, I just need another minute to fix my hair,” she says, feeling oddly self conscious as she begins tugging at pins.

He stands frozen for a moment longer and she can feel his eyes on her as her hair slowly unravels, but he begins to gather their things hastily a moment later.

She fashions a braid over one shoulder and tidies up her suitcase. He gathers the worn handles easily in one hand and turns toward her. His eyes sweep up her frame before settling on her face with a frown.

Sansa smooths a hand over the side of her head, immediately self-conscious. “What?”

“Do you have a wide brimmed hat?”

Sansa shakes her head as Jon’s frown deepens. She feels foolish. A smarter woman would have considered to bring such a thing. A woman who knew more about how to make a life beyond stitching fine handkerchiefs and organizing dinner parties.

“We haven’t time to find you one before the coach leaves,” he says, shouldering his bag and retrieving his own hat from the bedpost where he’d hung it. “We’ll get you one in Tombstone.”

Sansa shivers at the word. What a horrible name for a town, she thinks. So morbid and barbaric.

Breakfast is a quick affair. Sansa enjoys a large bran muffin and tea while Jon consumes a plate of beans, bacon and eggs with a black coffee. She watches him eat, the careful way he brings his spoon to his mouth, and realizes with a sudden sinking feeling that she will be expected to make his meals. She’s done little more than bake a few cookies and cakes in her life; she’d been raised to be the wife of a gentleman. To run a house filled with servants and to manage her and her husband’s social affairs, not toil in their kitchen or wash their laundry. Sanda ducks her head, shame and fear curling in her belly. She hadn’t pretended to be more -or less- than she was to Jon, but she doubted he understood the full extent of her uselessness and that filled her with guilt. She’d hardly gone out of her way to make him aware.

 _You can learn, Sansa_. She tells herself sternly. _You will be a good wife, no matter what Aunt Lysa believes_.

After they finish their meal, Jon carries their bags to the stagecoach as Sansa follows demurely behind, ducking her head to shield it from the already scorching sun. The town is bustling, workers dashing between ladden carts and women filing into the various shops. She assumes they hurry now to avoid the afternoon heat. Sansa is already beginning to sweat beneath the layers of her dress.

“Sheriff Snow!” A young man calls, rounding on them from the street corner. He has a rifle slung across his back and his hat is tipped back from his face. Sansa instinctively edges closer to Jon, though the other man's wide, bright smile goes far to put her at ease.

Jon brushes his hand off on his trousers and extends it in greeting. “Gendry, didn’t expect to see you here.”

The man, Gendry, takes Jon’s hand firmly, but his eyes stray toward Sansa, brimming with unabashed curiosity. They are very blue and shine out from a suntanned face.

“Just got hired on to ride shotgun,” Gendry says, nodding his head toward the stagecoach, and Sansa doesn’t miss Jon’s frown. His accent, one she’s never heard, twangs and snufs his words.

“Dangerous work, that.”

Gendry shrugs. “Pays well and makes travel a sight easier, not to mention cheaper.”

“The price of your life is hardly cheap,” Jon says, voice serious.

Gendry merely laughs. “No sense of adventure, Sheriff. Besides, I get to meet fine ladies like this one you’ve got tucked behind your back.”

Jon stiffens and turns, his hand falling gently to the small of her back in a gesture that catches her off guard.

“Uh, right, Gendry this is Sansa Sta- well, I suppose it’s Snow now. My, ah, wife.”

Sansa winches a bit at his clumsiness as Gendry stands agape for a moment before letting out a loud, pleasant scoff.

“Snow, you sly dog! I didn’t know you had a sweetheart.”

Jon flushes deeply and ducks his head. Sansa offers her best smile and extends her hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr…?”

Gendry gives her a roguish, crooked smile, sweeps his hat off his head, and takes her fingers between his. There is dirt under his nails and his palms are rough. “Waters, ma’am, Gendry Waters. And it’s a pleasure to make your very fine acquaintance.”

He ducks his head and presses a warm, dry kiss to her knuckles before shooting Jon a wolfish grin.

“I heard you were in a hurry to get up to Tucson, Sheriff, didn’t suspect you’d be returnin’ home with such a fine prize.”

Jon clears his throat as Sansa delicately retrieves her hand. Apparently Jon hadn’t quite prepared everyone for her arrival. This irks her for reasons she can't quite name but is certain are foolish.

“Didn’t want to stir up a fuss,” he says, tone bordering on defensive.

Gendry claps him on the back as the coach driver hollars a departure warning. “Course not, expect you wouldn’t want the whole county to know what a pretty thing you’re bringing out into the Devil’s own country.”

“Are you from El Frida, Mr. Waters?” Sansa asks as Jon moves reluctantly away, as though afraid to leave Sansa alone with Gendry, to speak with the driver.

“Afraid so, ma’am. My ma owned a shop out there till she passed, I rode with the line men for a few years before coming up north ward. I’m hopping to buy me a bit of land to raise some cattle on.”

“A fine prospect,” she tells him with a smile, only understanding half of what he’d said.

Jon reappears and Gendry steps aside, adjusting the strap of his rifle and tipping his hat to her. “Enjoy your ride, Mrs. Snow, you can trust I’ll be keepin’ a close look out for ya.”

Sansa smiles, trying not to feel uneasy. She knew Indian raids and bandit attacks where not uncommon in the area. “I’m certain you’ll do a fine job, Mr. Waters.”

She turns and Jon hands her carefully into the coach before following in after her. They are the only two passengers, she realizes belatedly, and the space between them immediately grows anxious.

They leave the flaps up as they pass through the lanes of Tucson; it is the largest city in the territory and it takes less than half of an hour for them to leave it behind. Boston had seemed to stretch on for ages, and as the hot, brown country opens before them, she feels very small and far removed.

Jon reaches out to tug the flaps down as the coach picks up speed and the heat presses in on all sides.

“Let me know if you start to feel overly heated or weary. Heat sickness is dangerous and common,” Jon says, setting his hat beside him and running a hand through his curls. His eyes are bright in the semi-darkness.

“I’m alright,” she says uncertainly. She already feels overly hot and weary.

Jon nods, eyeing her for a moment before glancing out the gaps in the window flaps. “It’ll cool off considerably by night fall; the wet season should hit us any day now and there will be a bit of respite in the afternoons.”

“Wet season?” she asks, unable to imagine any moisture at all occurring in such a barren place.

“A few weeks of heavy rains. They can be dangerous, but they make the heat more bearable.”

Sansa isn’t sure what else to say, nervousness replacing weariness from the night before. She’s acutely aware that for all her best efforts she is dismally unprepared for what life will be like for her in such a rural place.

Jon shifts and clears his throat. His expression is hard to read in the dim light as he leans back into the shadows. “Stay close to me in Tombstone and try not to make too much eye contact with anyone there… it’s not always as safe a place as it ought to be.”

Sansa swallows, glancing away from him and hoping he can’t read the fear and uncertainty in her face. She clenches her hands in her lap. “Of course. You’d needn’t trouble yourself over me, Jon. I am not so spoilt and silly as I was.”

“You were never silly, Sansa.”

She can’t quite contain a bitter laugh that is little more than a sardonic huff. “Of course I was, I was silly and flighty and full of my own importance.” And then she’d lost everything, and only then had she learned to appreciate the life she’d been born into.

Jon doesn’t speak for a long moment and Sansa wishes she could snatch the words back. It was hardly the sort of pleasant and engaging conversation she’d intended. “You were a child, Sansa and… you were very brave to come out here on your own.”

 _Only because I had no other choice_. She thinks, that bitterness rising like a well from deep within her. It’s all she can do to stem it’s flow.

They don't speak much after that, and Sansa falls into a sort of heat induced lethargy as she watches flashes of the countryside pass beyond the fluttering coach flaps.

An elderly couple joins them in a town called Benson, several hours outside of Tombstone. It’s past midday and Sansa stiffles a groan as she stretches, briefly freed from the stifling confines of the coach cabin. Smaller than Tucson, Benson possess only a bit of dusty, country charm. Several men eye her with interest, however, and she stays close to the coach and within sight of Jon, who is speaking quietly with Gendry. They enjoy a quick meal at a local hotel and Gendry joins them, more than making up for Jon’s lack of conversation. Sansa finds him a pleasant if rather brash companion, not at all like the polished men she is accustomed to spending her time with, but she thinks she might like him better for it. As disorienting as the transition has been thus far, the removal of some of the more tedious social constraints to which she’d been accustomed is something of a relief. There is a sense of freedom hovering about her, as yet out of reach, but not completely lost to her. Here, in this wild place, there is a sense she could be something _more_ than a pretty bobble to be placed on her husband's mantle.

The addition of two passengers in the coach brings Jon to her side and the length of his thigh is warm against hers. She wonders if it is only that he is her husband that makes her so aware of him. She is not blind, of course. Jon is handsome, even charming in his uncertain and steady way. The older woman asks after them, delighted and full of kindly advice when Sansa reveals, with some hesitance, that they are in fact newlyweds.

Jon stays mostly quiet as the coach ambles on; uttering the occasional “Yes, ma’am’ or ‘No, ma’am,’ when their curious companions press him. Eventually, the old man falls asleep, mouth wide open and head lulling from side to side, his gentle snores reverberating across the stifled cabin. His wife pulls out a bit of knitting and begins to hum.

Sansa isn’t certain when she dozes off, but she wakes with her face pressed close to Jon’s neck and his arm wrapped securely about her waist, holding her steady against the jarring sway of the cabin. His head is tilted back and his hat is tipped forward, shielding much of his face. She glances at the other occupants of the coach to find the elderly couple in much the same position -the old man still snoring with his mouth open and his wife tucked against his side, sleeping peacefully. It’s hot and sticky within the cabin, the air stale with old sweat and ever-present dust, but something about the heat radiating off Jon’s body makes her want to draw closer rather than pull away. Something about the sweat along her breasts and throat make her feel almost… _wanton_.

She shifts slightly and Jon tips his hat back with his free hand, eyeing her across the scant inches between them. Rather than withdrawing the arm about her waist as she might have expected, it tightens instead, pulling her closer. Her breath catches as she studies him. He makes no move to pull away, watching her with a disarming sort of intensity that reminds her of the boy he’d been all those years ago. Jon wasn’t humorless, but he’d always taken life far more seriously than Robb or any of the other young men in their social circle. It was a sincerity Sansa had not appreciate as a girl, being far more interested in boys who smiled and jested. She does not take it for granted now, as his dark eyes gleam at her, filled with something she only barely understands. That intensity dips lower, focusing on her lips and her head swims, heat that has nothing to do with the temperature of the cabin washing through her.

The coach lurches to a halt, and the old man wakes with a jarring snort. Sansa sits up with a jolt and Jon’s arm disappears as Gendry opens the door of the coach with a broad smile.

“Made it in one piece,” he tells Sansa, offering her a hand. “As promised.”  

Sansa offers a wavering smile, glancing back as Jon exits after, eyes carefully avoiding hers, and Sansa isn’t so certain she has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review are lovely and so are you. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are lovely and so are you. :)


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